


Worm's San Diego

by TopHat



Category: Parahumans Series - Wildbow
Genre: Action, Gen, Original Character(s), San Diego
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:07:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23235208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TopHat/pseuds/TopHat
Summary: Short pieces about some OC's for the Wormverse, set in San Diego.





	1. Birds of a Feather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Mighty Pigeon's Tale.

“Seven members of the Bear Clan are traveling south down seventeenth street,” I muttered into the comms unit, hopping over an alleyway and stumbling a little on the loose gravel of the rooftop. Turns out a grey and white costume blends into industrial smog really well. Smells terrible, but it’s excellent camouflage. “I’m engaging, hoping for weapons charges, followed by possession.”  
  
“Odds of possession are roughly equal to the odds of the Cubs winning the Superbowl this year, and weapons are strongly negative with the chance of rain,” Longshot says. A few drops of rain plink off my visor and I look up. Grey clouds lit by street lamps as far as the eye can see. Odd weather for San Diego but not unheard of in the springtime.  
  
“It’s a rebuilding season,” I respond, flicking on my helmet cam before dancing around an air duct and beginning the run up. “Engaging,” I say before shifting into a proper sprint.  
  
I kick off the edge of the roof, getting a level of air you only see in Brutes or saw in Olympic pole vaulting before professional athletics bit the dust, and for a brief, glorious moment I can almost think I’m flying.  
  
Then I start falling and I angle my body just so and my _power_ takes over.  
  
The impact is always the most devastating thing. Not because it destroys the ground (you only pay for a sidewalk ONCE). Not because it knocks you over (the amount of speed it would take to do that would be insane).  
  
Instead, it’s the noise. A clap of displaced air, calculated to be just enough to get attention, but not enough to deafen or injure. It took a lot of testing to get it right, but the effect...  
  
Seven pairs of eyes. All at once.  
  
Let’s see Desperado do _that_ with one of his guns.  
  
“Halt, evildoers!” I state, planting both fists on my hips and fighting down a flush from the giddiness that still hasn’t faded since that first night when I was just a kid running around in sweats and a ski mask. “The Mighty Pigeon would like to know what you are doing out and about at this late hour!” I manage to keep my voice proud and powerful throughout the entire statement, and I make a mental note to crack open something nice at the end of the night. Hero-ing is no fun if you can’t celebrate the little things.  
  
Three of them look scared as hell. Young enough to have acne, old enough to have gone through enough pain to think that crime is the answer. They’ll be here because they don’t have anything better to do, or they need to keep the lights on, or because they need someone to hang out with.  
  
I’ll take it easy on them.  
  
Three more look mid- to late-twenties, with claw tattoos on their necks and jagged haircuts. Veteran members, probably with a few unlisted felonies under their belts. They know how this goes. It won’t stop them from fighting, but they’ll run first if I don’t escalate.  
  
I trust Longshot to track one for interrogation, so Mr. I-Tattoed-My-Nose can 'get away.'  
  
The last guy looks like he got into college on a football scholarship then dropped out because it wasn’t violent enough. Taller than I am and built like an old-school powerlifter. He looks pissed.  
  
“Back the fuck off bird bitch,” he says, pulling out a pistol. Dessert Eagle. Big, showy and almost certainly going to dislocate the wrist of anyone who shoots it without a tripod. Also _very illegal_ in the state of California. I smile, even as the veterans eyes widen in realization and the newbies panic.  
  
It’s an excellent excuse to start a fight.  
  
I get one hand on his gun and a finger behind the trigger before he can put a hole in my chest. I twist my wrist, break his finger, then pull to disarm him, the gun spinning off behind me. Something for the police to pick up after the fact. That little move buys me a few seconds while he tries to figure out what just happened to his hand. I step past him and give a left-jab right-hook combination to one of the veterans, smooth and fast from years of practice on the bag, the ball, and the battlefield.  
  
By then the rest of them are moving. One of the newbies is running, the other two are fumbling for knives they probably took from their kitchens, and the remaining veterans are backpedaling, scrambling for something under their coats or in the back of their pants. Something L-shaped.  
  
I zero in on the guns and _power_ forward, smile still on my face. Never let them see you sweat.  
  
Right straight to the stomach, pushing out the air and making him go _oof_. I _power_ to the side before he can vomit on me and duck as the second veteran gets his piece out and lets off a wild shot. Not sure where the bullet went but that can wait for later. I _power_ again and stand up, suddenly towering over the guy. A knee to the gut, then the face, then the side of the head and he’s _outta there_ , sprawled unconscious on the side of the street.  
  
The amount of effort that went to making all that nonlethal defies summarization, but a one-word attempt is “excruciating.”  
  
Then something hits the back of my skull and I flip forward, hands falling into the triangle, head tucking in, shoulder hitting, rolling forward, spinning on my heel and falling into a boxing stance, weight low and guard up.  
  
Its Mr. Illegal Pistol with the two newbies grouped up behind him, looking pissed as heck and terrified respectively.  
  
I feel for the two kids behind him. I really do. They feel like they have no option, and that rep is more important than physical safety. Bruises heal, after all. The perspective of a teenager.  
  
“If you want to come quietly, I’m sure the forces of Justice would be willing to look at your situation favorably,” I say, meeting the newbies' gaze. First the one on the left with algae-green eyes and a raggedy mohawk, then at the one on the right with soft brown ones and a just-growing back buzz cut. ”It’s not too late.”  
  
Then Mr. Illegal Pistol charges, arms wide and spittle flying from his mouth as he roars incoherently. I step in-  
  
“The Mouse is in the House!” a feminine voice calls out as a golden shield with a black rodent head on the front crashes into the thug’s face, causing a clean crack to sound through the air as something breaks and he goes stumbling back. Then the air goes *pop* and a brown-clad heroine appears, majestic cape flapping in the sudden distortion as she catches the shield on her arm before falling into a fighting stance, head down, shield and ears up, sword ready to jab. “What ne’er do-wells threaten the city this time?”  
  
“Foul members of the Bear Clan, who drew arms on me as I inquired to their purpose this evening,” I respond, moving into position beside her and keeping my eyes on the big man. Faced with two capes the newbies drop their knives and hold up their hands, but Mr. Illegal Pistol doesn’t seem to get the memo and charges one last time. Mouse and I move forward, my foot going high with a kick towards his chin and her shield going low for a bash. We catch him at the same time and he goes flying, then falling, then skidding.  
  
He doesn’t get back up.  
  
“Well then, time to tie up these rat-scallions and leave them for the lawmen!” Mouse Protector says, tossing her shield to me. “Hold this.”  
  
I catch it with one hand. “Of course, fellow hero!” She disappears, the air rushing to fill the air behind her. I look at the pair of shocked newbies and start spinning the shield on one hand, fast enough that it looks like a golden sphere.  
  
“So then, how did you two fall under the sway of villainy?”  
  


* * *

  
  
Once Mouse Protector comes back with restraints and the thugs are zip-tied wrist-to-wrist and ankle-to-ankle around a light post with their weapons left next to them and the veterans’ wallets are emptied of loose cash (hero-ing doesn’t pay too well), Mouse Protector and I head back up to the rooftops. I _power_ up there and Mouse tosses her shield up before *pop*-ing into existence next to me.  
  
“That was a large group of thugs,” she says, the smile dropping away as we walk across the rooftops aimlessly. “They could be doing initiation for the new members, but that doesn’t typically mean bringing guns.”  
  
“None of them wanted to talk about where they were heading, but Longshot is running the numbers,” I say, hopping over an alleyway. There’s another *pop* and Mouse teleports besides me.  
  
“So, where are we heading?” she asks, checking a watch on the inside of her wrist. “We’re burning moonlight.”  
  
I tap just below my ear to activate the com in my helmet. “Longshot, how close are we?”  
  
“I’ve got it narrowed down to about ten block spread,” she says, voice a little strained. I don’t comment on it but make a mental note to pick up some more of the peppermint tea that helps with her migraines. “Head north to Alverson’s, then go west. Stop when you get to the intersection at 80th.”  
  
I locate the destination on my mental map of the city. Warehouse district, which means smuggling of some sort. Typically taking down a ring of any size needs a more in-depth look than what we can provide, but inaction could be morally indefensible, depending on the cargo.  
  
Either way, it’s a fair distance. I turn to Mouse.  
  
“We’ve got something in the warehouse district, but it’s a bit far. I could just run there and wait for you to teleport to me. You do have me marked, right?” I ask. She waves her hand dismissively.  
  
“Run off and get there, I’ll meet up with coffee and snacks,” she says, tossing her shield over the edge and *pop*-ing away a minute later. I turn north and _power_ forwards. This time I don’t let off the breaks.  
  
It’s not flight, no matter how many times PHO speculates about it. It’s more like falling with style, but even that’s not quite it. Falling implies a lack of control, and I’ve _never_ had more control than when I’m plunging feet-first towards wherever I’m going.  
  
I snap out of _power_ on top of a drug store on Alverson’s, bleed off some excess speed with a few long steps, take a left, then _power_ again. This time I don’t go as far into it, keeping some active perception on the outside world. When I hit 80th I come out, find a rooftop with a decent seat, and settle down to wait.  
  
A few minutes later the air to my right goes *pop* and Mouse is next to me, a pair of paper cups in her hands.  
  
“Four shots of espresso with skim milk,” she says, holding out a cup. I take it, savor the smell, and sip away. One of the many benefits of a partially-open mask. That, and you don’t run into those awkward body-language issues that the heroes with full-face coverage sometimes run into.  
  
Another gulp and I feel the caffeine hit my system. Say what you will about the Elite, their near-monopoly on the coffee import has done only good things for every one of us addicts.  
  
Mouse sips away at her own drink, some blasphemous milkshake that gets called coffee because it was made in the same building as a proper drink. “So, how much ground do we have to cover?”  
  
“Two by five spread of blocks,” I say, pointing to one dilapidated storehouse, then dragging the finger across the horizon to alight on the one next to it. “From here forward.”  
  
“One on each rooftop, listen for something, and meet up on the other side if we don’t find anything,” she says before quaffing more of her drink. “Anything sounds bad, stay away until we can regroup. Unless it sounds too bad.”  
  
I nod and swallow down the rest of my beverage with unseemly haste. “Break on three.”  
  
“Three,” she says, tossing her empty cup behind her and running forward, winding up for a throw, then hurling her shield at the building on the right.  
  
Well if that’s how it’s going to go...  
  
I _power_ forward, come out to kick off the edge of the roof, hang in the air, then _power_ into a landing on top of the building on the left. There’s a *pop* as Mouse teleports to her shield mid air, then silence as she rolls with the landing and comes up running.  
  
It doesn’t take long to sweep the first pair of buildings. Broken skylights let in the night’s light, shining down on nothing but broken pallets and assorted trash. Ideal substance use territory but no one’s there now. Maybe I’ll come by later and see if I can’t find some dealers or users.  
  
The second building is an apartment slum, and besides a few raised voices nothing’s out of the ordinary. I make a note to drop by in a few days and see if the shouting has escalated, at which point an anonymous phone call will be in order.  
  
When I finish sweeping the third building (some filthy restaurants and a second-hand goods store) Mouse waves me over to hers, a warehouse in much better condition than the one I looked at. The gap between buildings is short enough that I don’t have to _power_ over, and after a quick run, jump, and roll I’m jogging up next to her.  
  
“What did you find?” I ask. She’s looking down through a skylight and I follow her gaze. Black paper, thick and heavy, is attached to the inside of the glass, blocking illumination and sight.  
  
“Do you think someone is trying to be sneaky?” she says sarcastically.  
  
“They’re definitely trying something,” I respond, mind whirring. “I’m thinking it’s someone new, who doesn’t know what they can and can’t get away with.” Honestly, we might have skipped over this building entirely if it wasn’t for this little oddness.  
  
“New means dangerous,” she says and I nod. I once lost an arm because a newbie hero didn’t know how to aim, and the professionals only shoot to kill if you escalate first. She pulls out a phone and flips it open before looking at me. “Think we should call in the white hats?”  
  
I nod. “Not now, but I’ll get them on speed dial.” I thumb the radio in my helmet and turn towards a particular skyscraper. “We’ve found a potential smuggling. Keep the Protectorate number at the ready, alright Longshot?”  
  
“Gotcha,” she says. “Give me a minute to relocate and get a better angle, alright?”  
  
“Affirmative.” I respond. I thumb off the radio and turn back to Mouse. “Longshot’s going to relocate to a better spot and have her thumb on the call button. Mind waiting a bit?”  
  
Mouse shrugs. “I’ll look for other entrances.” She walks off to edge of the building and I sit down against an air duct and close my eyes, settling in for a short meditation. That, and to review my mental list of one-liners and puns.  
  
Being funny in a fight sounds easy. That's the point. It makes the victory seem more decisive and the defeats less heart breaking. Misplaced pride stops some from engaging in the verbal plane of the fight. The rest don't because it takes effort to be even moderately amusing.  
  
Me? I'm adorable. All it takes is an extra hour of research every day.  
  


* * *

  
  
Some time later my radio goes off.  
  
“Relocated and set up. Phone’s ready to dial and I’ve got a rifle ready,” Longshot says, her voice steady and calm. It doesn't sound right, but I let it go. We all handle the stress differently. I flick on my helmet cam and lever myself to my feet, stretching out any vestigial stiffness.  
  
Mouse wanders over, a loop of rope in one hand. “Found a window that _probably_ leads into the main room,” she says, wrapping it around a chimney, then running it through a carabiner on her belt. “How much control do you have over your flight?”  
  
“It’s not flight,” I say, “But I can make make my own entrance.” Dash in like idiots. They’ll never expect it. The sad truth is that it works so long as you pick the entry point well.  
  
“I’m entering the third window from the right,” she says, tugging on the rope twice before walking towards the edge of the roof. “Pick the one next to me?”  
  
I nod back and jerk a thumb at the next building over. “I’ll be coming in at an angle. Move in at,” I check my own watch, “One seventeen?” Two minutes to get into position.  
  
Mouse nods. “See you through a window,” she says, cracking a smile and hoping over the edge of the building. I smile back. She’s one of the only ones who gets it.  
  
What’s the point of super powers if they aren’t any _fun_?  
  
I _power_ over the street, line myself up with the window just to the right of Mouse (who’s already balanced in front of hers) and then make my way to the other end of the roof, giving me maybe twenty feet of runup. Then I go through my pre-fight checklist.  
  
Roll the shoulders, flex out the hands, kick out the feet and get any cricks out of my neck. Make sure that there isn’t any last minute physical problem. Yawn wide and loud, get those vocal cords nice and warmed up. Double check that the helmet cam and radio are on and focus on the watch.  
  
Show time.  
  
I power forward, covering three feet with the first step, six with the second, at the edge of the roof with the third (Mouse is already at the apex of her swing back, with her shield held in front of her), then I’m barreling towards the window.  
  
Glass shatters as I enter the building and I take in the room. Well-lit, with three people in costume standing next to a pair of hard-core Bear Clan members in front of five large cargo containers, left open to reveal dozens of cowering, dirty people.  
  
I land in a boxing stance, a smile on my face and something sick in my heart. This... this is going to be hard. Another window shatters and Mouse rolls up next to me, shield up and sword ready to stab.  
  
“The heroes have arrived!” I shout loud and clear, the code for “call back up,” and I hear the sound of a phone ringing through the radio as I take in the capes. One in a plain back bodysuit with a thin white line down the middle and a domino mask, one in an orange and red number that leaves her hands bare and her face covered, one girl in what looks more like a bondage outfit than anything else (complete with her “assets” on display) and one guy in street clothes and a mask modeled after a human skull that covers the lower half of his face.  
  
“We’re here to arrest you in the name of JUSTICE!” Mouse finishes, keeping her tone steady and bright. Good. Means she’s not going to lose it because of the slaves. Neither of us can afford to fly off the handle when faced with two-to-one odds.  
  
The pair of Bear Clan members start running away and the cape with the skull mask steps forward. “Leave,” he growls. “Take your _fucking_ games elsewhere.” A name comes to mind. Jawbone. A high-rated Brute who can extend his power to objects he touches.  
  
“Can’t do that,” Mouse says, still chipper as she adjusts her stance lower. “That, and fucking games seem to be more your teammate’s schtick.” Thank you for the banter, I’m still trying to come up with something applicable to the situation that isn’t horribly disrespectful.  
  
“We tried negotiation, let’s kill ‘em,” the one in red says, stepping forward and raising her hands. That’s the cue for Mouse the break left, me to go right, and the world to be filled with heat. Not fire, the blazing red flakes turn into something grey after a few seconds, Then my thinking is interrupted as Jawbone rushes up to me and brings down his clasped hands in a hammer blow.  
  
I roll to the side and get to see just what his Brute rating means as the concrete of the floor _fractures_ around the point of impact. On my best day, I can barely bend metal.  
  
Not going to tussle with that.  
  
I get to my feet and _power_ across the ground, aiming for his knees. My kick meets something hard and moving fast and I spin out, tumbling across the ground before pulling myself into a proper crouch. The man in the black bodysuit is strolling idly towards me, a bored expression on his face.  
  
Deadline. Brief periods of super speed, where he’s also invincible. Not the easiest opponent to fight.  
  
“You both have Mover powers, you know,” he says casually. His mask has mirrored lenses over the eyes, concealing what I can only imagine is pure apathy. “You’ve probably already called the Protectorate and could just run away and wait for the big guns to come in. This entire deal went bust as soon as you showed up.”  
  
“The heinous weed of turpitude can never hope to escape the Mighty Pigeon!” I shout back, falling into _power_ and barely dodging a black blur. Then I have to roll with a punch to the shoulder from Jawbone that feels like it came from a Mack truck. I don’t take it perfectly and end up skipping across the ground, stopping when I crash into the side of the building. This seems like a less than optimal matchup.  
  
I get to my feet and _power_ up to the ceiling to hang onto a rafter and assess the situation. The two bruisers are waiting for me to drop while Mouse is dancing around the dominatrix (or would she be a submissive, what with the choker and all?), some sphere thingies homing in on her and the woman in orange, who doesn’t seem to care about blasting her partner and has some _very_ aggressive body language.  
  
“Fucking _die_ already!” she shouts, hurling another cloud of whatever her projectile is at Mouse, who ducks behind the woman in bondage get up, who in turn screams in what I tentatively want to call _satisfaction_?  
  
“Now then, no need to get so _heated_ Brand,” Mouse says, tossing her shield to the side and ducking under a punch, darting between a pair of spheres, then dashing towards the Blaster. “I mean, things haven’t even gotten _hot and heavy_ yet!”  
  
The Blaster screams in rage and sends out a plume of burning in her direction. Mouse goes *pop* and the bondage woman catches the full force of the blast, and wispy spheres bubble off her and start moving towards Mouse.  
  
Okay, time to switch it up.  
  
I _power_ down towards Brand, aiming for her leg. The black blur appear behind her and my foot comes to rest on Deadline’s chest. I kick off, sending him stumbling back into Brand and do a backflip, landing in the classic three-point stance before standing back up. “You four may as well give up already,” I call. “The superior synergy of righteousness shall prevail in the face of the wicked’s inferior teamwork!” Here’s to hoping Mouse picks up on the details.  
  
Deadline looks at me and there’s another blur, followed by absolute _pain_ in my abdomen. I fall back onto the ground and curl around my stomach, hoping nothing ruptured.  
  
That one hurt.  
  
He steps in front of my eyes and uses his foot to tilt my head towards his. He still doesn’t have a real expression on his face. Just a slightly bored look. It’s kind of creepy.  
  
“Last chance to run,” he says, a note of finality in his voice. Then his jaw clenches and his arms spasm before he falls to the ground across me, revealing Mouse behind him, the tip of her rapier sparking and a smile on her face.  
  
“I know it must be _shocking_ to be taken down without a one-liner, but it’s hard _lightning_ the mood sometimes,” she gloats before going *pop* and sending all the wisps in the other direction. I take the opportunity to push the now-unconscious Deadline off my chest and slowly get to my knees.  
  
At which point I get the toe of a boot to the chest and go flying.  
  
Sometimes it feels like every serious villain has a better Brute factor than I do.  
  
“Quit fucking around, Contrition!” Jawbone yells, stomping towards me. Figure Contrition must be the bondage woman. Also, fucking around? Poor choice of words, especially when fighting Mouse.  
  
“You think I’m not trying?” she says, and the disappointment in her voice is palpable. “She’s more slippery than a lubed dildo!” I spare a glance and see that Mouse now has a sizable following of spheres which still can’t seem to catch her.  
  
“As tempting as that come on is, I’m going to have to ask you to _strip_ trying to seduce me in the middle of a fight,” Mouse calls back before going *pop* and eliciting a hiss of rage as a cloud of red-hot powder blooms into existence where she was just a moment ago.  
  
“The vile gonorrhea of wickedness can never corrupt the pure genitals of good!” I shout. Can’t let Mouse have all the fun. Then Jawbone goes in for a roundhouse at my head and my thoughts are on dodging.  
  
He’s got no technique. At least, not more than your average gangbanger. It makes you wonder how he got to be an A-lister. Then you remember that this is a man who’s used a metal pipe to destroy a building in twenty minutes. One hit and it’s lights-out for most normies and low tiers Brutes. Like me.  
  
He sends a straight at me and I let it slip over my shoulder, then go for a toss. Most martial arts are less martial and more art, but occasionally you find something useful.  
  
When Jawbone refuses to budge (he’s _way_ heavier than I thought he’d be) I turn the toss into a spin and manage to disengage before he can get a hand on me. Grappling with a Brute that’s stronger than you are is not conducive to long-term health.  
  
“ _Bit off_ a bit more than you could chew?” Mouse asks, going back to back with me.  
  
“Justice is never out matched, only temporarily waylaid,” I respond looking at Jawbone, who’s walking back towards me, the concrete cracking with every step. On the other hand some justice is better suited to serving some people. “I will take on the greater challenge, if you so wish.” I spin around, Mouse spinning with me.  
  
“Sweet,” she whispers. “Hey, Lockjaw,” she shouts from behind me, “How much _ribbing_ can you handle? Don’t want to hurt your feelings!” Meanwhile, I’m face to face with half a dozen orbs of varying size and a scantily clad woman charging in behind them.  
  
I dash through the orbs, which explode into heat and electricity. Not enough to hurt me (though it stings something _furious_ ) but a normal would probably be on the ground. Some kind of damage reflection?  
  
Contrition goes for a sloppy grab. I don’t bother trying to engage and _power_ under her, knocking her off her feet and closing the distance with Brand. She blasts me, eyes wide, but it’s not worse than stepping into a too-hot shower. I get my head clear and meet her gaze. She looks surprised. Watching someone dash through fire will do that.  
  
“The light of evil will never pierce the sleep mask of righteousness!” I proclaim, sending a quick jab across her chin. A lot of nerves there, and she drops like a sack of bricks.  
  
Then the wall to the outside explodes.  
  
I turn to face the sudden entrance along with Contrition. Given the lack of pithy one-liners or incoherent swearing, I assume that means that Jawbone’s looking too. Good thing villains respect entrances.  
  
As the dust settles, a warped, black skeleton steps through. The joints all look fused and alien, with teeth that can be best described as shark-like. It looks between us, empty sockets somehow managing to be both judging and amused.  
  
Odokuro. The leader of the local Protectorate. One of the highest Brute ratings on record.  
  
She promptly gets struck by a black blur and thrown back through the wall. Deadline is up but grimacing and tilts his neck from side to side. I see a few burn marks on it. Looks like Brand took aggressive measures to wake up her leader.  
  
“We’re leaving,” he says, before blurring towards me. I hop back instinctively, but he’s picking up Brand in a fireman’s carry. “You win.” Then he blurs off.  
  
Cortition spawns a wisp that tears a hole in the wall (what’s with high-level Brutes and property damage?) and jumps through it while Jawbone just runs through a different wall, much like Odokuro did.  
  
In seconds the only people left in the building are Mouse and I. We exchange glances, I motion to my chest (which still stings) and she points to a scorch on one of her pauldrons. We nod in silent agreement. Pursuing four relatively dangerous villains while inured is less than ideal, even with back up.  
  
That, and there are more important things to deal with.  
  
Mouse heads off towards the containers (which have remains untouched throughout the fight) and I head towards the original hole in the wall, which has Odokuro moving through it again, this time with a degree of caution.  
  
“The wily forces of malevolence have fled the field, fine hero!” I say, clapping her firm, unyielding shoulder blade while staring into those cold, dead sockets. The creepiest Protectorate hero, hands down, including the one that’s actually just a very durable sea sponge. “My valiant companion Mouse Protector and I have decided to prioritize helping these poor souls find their homes rather than pursue them.” She nods once before shifting her hands in front of her. American Sign Language. I rack my brain and ask for a repeat, which she gives.  
  
 **Are you two hurt?**  
  
“Justice is never hurt, only debilitated,” I state firmly. “Neither Mouse nor I require a hospital.” I think we’ll both need a beer or six immediately after getting off shift but besides that I don’t think either of us took anything we can’t patch up at home.  
  
The skeleton nods before looking over my shoulder. I turn to follow her gaze. Mouse is leading some of the people out of the cargo containers, cracking jokes and dancing between groups, trying to figure out who speaks English, who’s related to who, and if anyone needs immediate medical attention.  
  
There’s a tap on my shoulder, the feather-light touch that comes with experience and one-too-many destroyed home appliances. I turn and see Odokuro, signing slowly and deliberately.  
  
 **You know our doors are always open, right? If you had some backup maybe they wouldn’t have gotten away. Not trying to be an asshole,** she adds quickly in a flutter of finger bones, **just trying to make everyone a little safer at night.**  
  
“The Mighty Pigeon only serves capital-J Justice,” I respond, crossing my arms. At this point the recruitment pitches aren’t personal, but they get grating after a while. “I can’t speak for fair Mouse Protector, but I suspect she feels the same.”  
  
Odokuro tilts her head to one side and lifts both hands in the universal sign of “I tried” before walking back out onto the street. I head over towards Mouse, who’s kneeling by a dirty little boy and making big, expansive motions with her hands.  
  
“-and that’s why you need to tell me what you know about your parents, little Mousling,” she finishes, smile still in place. The kid giggles nervously and leans forward, whispering in her ear. She listens with a rapt attention and look of utter seriousness before extending a pinky. “I promise I’ll help you find them,” she says. He giggles and completes the solemn oath. Mouse gives his head one last ruffle before standing back up and walking to another kid. A stab of jealousy runs through me before I banish it. Mouse is good at what she does, and at the end of the day it’s about results. Some people can convince kids to open up, some can walk a suicide risk off the edge, and some need a lot of work to be able to do either.  
  
I move towards a group of nervous-looking teenagers who seem bonded by perceived age rather than anything like ethnicity or family.  
  
“So then, fair citizens of the world, how did you come to such dire straits?” I begin, putting a smile on my face. It’s going to be a long night, and getting a head start on the interviews will help the police immeasurably. Sticking around afterwards and greasing the wheels of investigation is one of the reasons they like us campy independents so much.  
  


* * *

  
  
It’s early by the time I get back to the Roost. Longshot refuses to call it that, but she has yet to realize the power of the tactical flirt attack so her naming privileges are limited to her personal gear and I call it the Roost.  
  
It’s a spartan place. Bare brick walls, white sofas facing the north wall, a mid-sized kitchen separated from the living room by an island, and a trio of doors, one with crosshairs on it one with a feather, and one that just says Armory. Two bookshelves, two computers, and one floor-to-ceiling and wall-to-wall window.  
  
I take the time to strip down and place pieces of my costume on the tactical rack refitted to hold my costume. Longshot’s spec-ops gear is already stowed and the laminated map of the city that takes almost half of the floor space is already wiped down. Not too surprising, she always gets back first. I don’t hear the shower running so Molly’s probably already turned in.  
  
After a nice, cold bird bath in the kitchen sink (after an awkward moment early in our collaboration that lead to a hole in the wall next to my head I was forbidden from showering while she was in the Roost) I pull on some plaid pajama bottoms, pull out a six pack of 20% beers kept at room temperature and sit down across from the only purely egotistical thing in the apartment.  
  
A collage of newspaper clippings covering drug busts, aborted muggings, cape fights, cape captures, and defeats. A comprehensive history of Peregrine, Dive, then the Mighty Pigeon, starting from the first little column on the fourth page of a high school paper about some teenager in a hoodie who accidentally broke the arm of the girl he was trying to pull out of the way of a bullet. The history of Alex Hayes, ex-asshole and full-time superhero.  
  
I take a pull of the alcohol. Some Brutes can get drunk just fine, even with powers. Not me. Now I have to drink and hope the smell and taste bring back memories.  
  
Is this a narcissistic thing to do? Maybe. Probably. I try to include everything, though. Dive Suffers a Humiliating Defeat at the Hands of Marauder. Indie Hero Too Late. Why The Protectorate Should be More Aggressive when Recruiting. The fuck ups as well as the successes. I don’t go over everything every night, but when I’m feeling like I’m doing good I try to review the times that I thought I had everything under control. That I was on top of my game. That’s when I miss a dead man's switch. That’s when a hold-up escalates to a hostage situation.  
  
It’s a miracle that I haven’t been press ganged into the Protectorate yet.  
  
Molly thinks the wall is stupid. That the past is the past, and that dwelling on it won’t help. She doesn’t try to tear it down though, and I see her gazing at it longingly from time to time.  
  
I pull out a half-filled binder, a pen, and a voice recorder. I dictate the events of the night, the address of the warehouse district, and make a new entry in the bounty section for Contrition. Sparse details for now, but maybe PHO will have something for me in the morning.  
  
I finish the last beer, put away the paperwork, and stretch, ready for a nice, long nap. On the way to my room something glints on the wall next to the collage.  
  
It’s a small little thing, professionally framed. A printer-friendly version of an online article detailing the capture of a then-unknown parahuman who could predict the paths people could take and had an intuitive sense for how they would react to certain stimulus. No one claimed credit for the capture.  
  
I remember standing in the rain next to a girl holding a gun to her sister’s head, asking me why she shouldn’t pull the trigger. I remember telling her that I didn’t have a good reason other than it felt wrong to kill someone, even someone who hurt you, who hurt you the most, and why I actually had something close to an idea of what was running through her sister's head.  
  
I go to bed, collapse onto the sheets without bother to pull them over me, and begin to dream about what’s going into the collage next.


	2. Lucky Vulture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Odokuro's Story.

The thing they never tell you about dying is how much it _hurts_.  
  
I don’t hit the button for morphine. No matter how much it might help, the pain comes back. It always does. Why bother fighting it?  
  
Alice and Brandon both want to. They want to wage a _war_. Like they know what that means. They’ll battle tooth and nail against something that they can’t touch, reading to me while working three jobs between the two of them to cover the hospital bills, trying to provide stimulus that distracts me from the pain. They tell me that the morphine is covered in the bills, that I can use as much as I need.  
  
They’re both terrible liars. I’m much better. More practice, telling fresh recruits that stomach wounds aren’t that bad, that they’ll pull through, that they can rest if they just get over one more hill.  
  
I don’t regret feeding those rookies bullshit, and I sure as fuck don’t regret giving it to my children.  
  
I tell them that it doesn’t hurt that much. That the molten glass that flows sluggishly through my bones is just a little stinging, that the surgeries don’t leave the very incarnation of _ache_ behind for weeks. Months. I tell them that I appreciate their efforts when all I want to do is lay down in a ditch and finally fucking _die_.  
  
It’d break their hearts. So I hang on.  
  
Another wave of pain goes through me and I smile at Alice. She’s on Mom duty today, reading some book that her econ professor assigned her to me. It’s a popular press book, so us non-college students can still make sense of it, and it’s interesting. Interesting enough that forcing the smile doesn’t make me want to vomit and I can have an actual conversation with her.  
  
She departs as visiting hours close, leaving me alone with my pain. I grit my teeth, close my eyes, and brace against the coming of the night.  
  


* * *

  
  
I still remember the time that I wanted death more than I wanted my kids to be happy.  
  
It’s just...  
  
Fuck.  
  
Let me explain.  
  
Only one third of the military is ever deployed at a time. One third is in the field, one third is training, and one third is recuperating. The people at the top know that you can only be at the top of your game for so long, so they make sure you get out before you slip up and get someone killed.  
  
Cancer doesn’t work like that. At least, mine didn’t.  
  
The doctors were astounded. A miracle of modern science, more than six standard deviations from the norm. I’ve been without remission for longer than anyone else. Lucky, in a certain sense of the word. Some girl in residency smiled when she said that. She smiled.  
  
She stopped smiling when I threw that bitch onto a table so hard it shattered. The official story is that she tripped. No one’s said I’m lucky since.  
  
I’ve been fighting for a _long_ time. Longer than I’ve trained for. Longer than anyone’s trained for. By all rights I should’ve gotten used to the pain by now. I should have strategies, plans, methods for _dealing with it_.  
  
But I don’t. The pain doesn’t change, and neither can I.  
  
So one night I stop. I break down and cry quietly in the ward. I let the frustration and despair and sheer fucking _loss_ win for a minute.  
  
And I forget about Alice and Brandon.  
  
When I wake up, the pain is still there, but _different_. Like the fire’s behind a pane of glass rather than eating away at my skin. I laugh, long and hard, partially at the _shame_ of forgetting my children and partially from relief because _it hurts less_.  
  
When Brandon comes by, he’s stunned. I do the talking for the both of us, and I even eat part of his lunch.  
  
 _This_.  
  
 _This_ is a fucking miracle.  
  


* * *

  
  
Alice is halfway through explaining some new development in microeconomics that was reversed engineered from a Thinker’s stock market fuckery when the front of the hospital explodes.  
  
Training takes over. I push on my withered limbs, praying to whoever will listen for strength. I get it. Alice is on the ground, under me, shielded from harm.  
  
A second bomb. This time I see the source. Someone in black and white rags with a physique that practically screams “heroin chic.” His head is flickering in and out of focus, and his babbling can be heard clear across the room.  
  
“It’s a hospital, right?” he says, fingers twitching to and fro as his head goes sort of staticky. A druggie, hardcore and without a fix for at least a few days. “They’ve gotta have some good shit here. Mick got some nice stiff when he broke his leg so hurt people get drugs from them that should work right? Right? Right! RIGHT!?” He’s walking towards us, voice rising and rising and he lifts his hand and-  
  
“NO!” I roar.  
  
Before I got diagnosed, MCMAP was in the process of being adapted to fight capes. The core change in philosophy was that you treated capes like they could kill you with a gesture until proven otherwise. The corollary was that the least amount of force you could use against an unknown parahuman was lethal.  
  
Get in, kill, then run away before some aspect of their powers you didn’t know about kills you back.  
  
I zero in on the cape and try to move. My limbs don’t like that. Fuck ‘em. I push harder and I’m running, running like I haven’t since boot camp.  
  
The cape seems almost surprised for a few second. Enough for me to close most of the distance and get the fight away from my daughter. Then the static around his face sharpens into a shape _painful_ to look at and something flickery jumps from his hand to my stomach.  
  
Fucking _agony_. Barbed wire and a heavy period and a torn muscle _all at once_. I turn it into hate and move through it, ignoring the sound of tearing meat and the *splat* of blood on linoleum. Worry later. The static around the junkie’s eyes goes stable for a second.  
  
“What the-” he starts, but the rest of it is cut off as I punch him where I think his throat should be.  
  
The cape staggers back, hands going up to the source of pain. I keep hitting. Stomp his foot (I feel something give), gut punch (he doubles over, the static around his face flickering to reveal pocket marks and scars), sidestep and kidney punch (he falls face-first to the ground) and another stomp in his skull.  
  
It’s _agony_ where my foot comes passes through the static field, but my foot still hits. I grit my teeth and do it again. The pain isn’t as bad this time, not as bad as being bedridden, waiting to die, and I feel it hit again. He stops moving. I stomp one more time and something goes *crack* and the static field fades entirely.  
  
His corpse looks a lot less dangerous than when he was alive. Corpses are like that.  
  
I inhale, the act oddly difficult, and look around for more threats, scanning the patients and visitors for anyone who looks out of place.  
  
Alice. She’s staring at me, eyes wide, flecks of red covering her. I jog over towards her, mind whirling with worst-case scenarios. Is she injured? Did the blast over-penetrate? Shrapnel? The walk feels odd, like I’m wearing only one shoe, but I leave it for later. I crouch in front of Alice and hold her head between my hands.  
  
“Allie, are you okay?” I ask, voice far quieter than I’m used to. She jerks a little nod. Good, she’s paying attention. That’ll help ward off shock. “Do you hurt anywhere? Feel cold?” I keep one hand on her face and start feeling her body. Legs and arms are fine, abdomen feels unpunctured, steady heart rate, if a little high-  
  
“Mom you’re hurt,” she says, pointing at my stomach. Of course I am, but it doesn’t feel that bad. Nonetheless, I give my body a cursory glance-  
  
Oh god.  
  
My stomach is gone. The flesh is shredded into nothingness. Literally. I’m missing a cubic _foot_ of organs where my intestines were. Somehow, my spine still has some giblets on it, but there’s no way it could realistically support my weight.  
  
My foot isn’t much better. There’s no meat on it. None. The bones are black, slightly glossy, covered in blood, and moving in tandem, despite the total lack of muscles. I try flex my toes. They wiggle. I stare at the... _digits_ in morbid fascination. Farther up my leg the limb is torn and bleeding profusely. It’s a lethal amount of blood to be losing, and I shouldn't be able to move.  
  
What?  
  
I look up at my daughter. She’s still staring at me, a mixture of fear and horror on her face. It breaks my heart.  
  
“Allie...” I whisper. No wonder I’m having a hard time speaking. I don’t have any muscles around my lungs.  
  
She edges away a little. I don’t blame her.  
  
I stay there, by my daughter but not touching her, until the PRT troops arrive.  
  


* * *

I am indestructible. It’s a bold claim, but one that fits. Alexandria tried pinching my pinky bone into dust. Tried being the operative word. I’ve caught friendly fire from Legend and walked out unharmed. Some Mexican cape _nuked_ a coastal city when Leviathan came in and sent my flying over the ocean. Two weeks later I walked out of the surf and got mistaken for a deity by the same guy.  
  
It took some _very_ impressive charades to explain that I was not, in fact, a vengeful god, and all I wanted to do was get home and plaster gore onto my bare bones until I looked human again.  
  
I am indestructible but I am not strong. Stronger than your average Marine, but not by much, and compared to some of the other Brutes in San Diego I’m a lightweight. Jawbone can toss me around like so many broomsticks and Flyfitcher really doesn’t give a fuck about what she touches, so long as she can get a finger on you. Hell, _Pigeon’s_ beaten me in an armwrestling contest.  
  
On my own against capes, I’m a persistent threat that will not stop until they are either gone, in the foam, or in the ground. Sometimes that’s enough. Sometimes it’s not and I play offensive line while Desperado is the QB and Schrödinger does her best impression of a safety.  
  
Pit me up against a few regular humans with small arms though...  
  
I side step the charging member of Coldzero’s cult and clothesline her. I’m heavier, sitting at over three hundred pounds without a sleeve, have momentum on my side, and more than peak human strength. Ms. Poor Life Choices practically flips over, and the two teens fumbling with a pair of jumper cables suddenly look less sure of themselves.  
  
I point to them, then at the ground. They get the message and drop down, hands spread. I sigh internally. First arrests, then. I pull some zip-ties off of my utility belt and start securing their hands at the small of their back, wrenching their arms into the proper position. I hold my phone next to their ears and thumb a now painfully-familiar recording.  
  
“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney-” and after that I stop listening. I’m not sure which PRT agent they press-ganged into reading this off, but I’d like to think that she’s tried to use the prestige of being Odokuro’s voice to pick up guys at the bar at least once. I’d like to think that, but Janice is a lovely woman who’s happily married, and no matter how cheery she is when she reads the Miranda rights you can only listen to anything so many times before it drives you mad.  
  
I finishing securing them, call the PRT and look at the three criminals that’ll be out tomorrow. They’ll be out because Coldzero has the money to pay bail, because master victims get as much leniency as they want, because in the grand scheme of things how much do three gangbangers matter?  
  
Sometimes I’m glad that I don’t have vocal cords when I’m on patrol. That way I can scream in rage at the sheer idiocy of it all.  
  
I fucking _get_ why Mouse and Pigeon don’t join up sometimes. I _understand_ why Spindle tries to stay neutral where he can, and why Charity can’t afford to let people know _jack shit_ about what his power does. And when I have to capture the same fucking criminal over and over and over again, it makes me want to join them.  
  
I let out my rage a sigh silently. Then I go back and remember all the reasons why I stay with the Protectorate.  
  
The first is scale. The system fails sometimes. All systems do. But at the end of the day, it’s a net benefit for everyone. “Capital-J Justice” doesn’t get served all the time because the human standard for that changes with the wind, and while some people know what it is the illusion of fairness prevents more wars than actual fairness. Good people who happen to be dangerous get ostracised because there are more dangerous people who aren’t good. Bad people go free because people need to have a way out of bad situations, no matter how shitty they are. Otherwise, what’s the point of prison?  
  
I sigh and think of the Birdcage. Of the “unwritten rules.” Of the systematic isolation or deification of powerful and otherwise basically decent people.  
  
The parts of the system that I can’t defend.  
  
What a cluster fuck.  
  


* * *

  
  
Uppercut. Dodge. Knee. Block. Grapple. Escape.  
  
Jen’s worked hard to pick up a basic competency in violence. It doesn't come easily to her, and when we work on the more lethal stuff she gets a little green around the gills. She keeps at it, though. More than what can be said for Jared, who quit after I flipped his ass to the ground four times in a row, or how Sally refuses to practice fighting without her power.  
  
Uppercut. Dodge. Knee. Block. Grapple. Escape.  
  
Repetition is key to learning. That, and pain. Jen knew the first part, but fought against the second part for a long time. Then she managed to twist me into a lock when I went to slap her for the hundredth time.  
  
I got out but the point was made.  
  
Uppercut. Dodge. Knee. Block. Grapple. Escape.  
  
Slow, methodical, accurate, careful and precise. Otherwise a choke hold turns into a broken neck, or a joint lock into a broken arm. Capes have to put on the kid gloves, lest they pick up a body count. One of the hardest things to teach the Wards, and the reason I’m the only one allowed to spar with Aaron. He’s a good kid, but he doesn’t spend enough time in his Changer form. I understand why, but he’s handicapping himself by trying to learn how to fight outside of it.  
  
Uppercut. Dodge. Knee. Block. Grapple. Escape.  
  
Jen throws out an extra punch at the end. I catch it before it can impact and damage my flesh.  
  
“My head’s in the game,” I affirm. Then we go back to training.  
  
After a few more minutes of slow motion practice, Jen steps back and lifts her hands, sweat running freely over flushed cheeks.  
  
“I’m out,” she says, panting freely. We quit the mats and she starts guzzling water. After half the bottle is gone, she tosses it to me and I drink gratefully. I don’t have to keep my meat bits healthy, but acting like a regular human makes it last longer before I need to strip it off again. That, and dry throats are a pain.  
  
We sit on the bench for a while, mopping up sweat, adjusting our domino masks, and letting the wonderfully air conditioned breeze in the gym cool us down.  
  
After a few minutes, Jen breaks the silence.  
  
“Are you okay Aki?” she asks. I raise an eyebrow at her. “You, uh, seemed distracted,” she continues, avoiding my eyes. “Like, when you got out of the pit last night,” the mere thought of that pool of blood and flesh is making her look queasy, but she soldiers on, “You looked disappointed. Like you messed up or something.” Ah, Jen. The only one on the entire team who notices what’s going on. And it’s not even a part of her power. Get on her level, Evan.  
  
I shrug and take another drink of water. “The criminals got away. Disappointment is natural,” I say dispassionately. Honestly, the tip-off from Mouse and Pigeon should’ve resulted in even less. I was lucky to be in the same area, lucky that I showed up before either of them died, lucky that all of the victims were willing to cooperate. It was a good day.  
  
That didn’t stop me from going a few rounds with Grendel before I rebuilt my meat parts. That, and finding a different sort of partner for a few rounds of angry sex once I did have my squishy bits back.  
  
I realize I’m cruising the plastic bottle. I take an unnecessary breath and release it.  
  
Calm.  
  
“Okay...” Jen says, taking my response as a cue to stop asking. Good girl. She switches subjects. “What about Alice and Brandon? How are they doing?”  
  
I smile as I think about my kids. About how far they’ve gone.  
  
“Brandon’s working at some software company in LA right now and he’s stopped asking for help with the rent money. Not sure if that’s because of a pay raise or the property values plummeting,” I joke. Jen laughs politely and I move on. “Alice is loving grad school and already has some profs asking for her as a TA.” I chuckle, the nose echoing in the nearly-empty room. “No idea where she picked up the taste for academia, but she swears up and down that it’s the most fun she’s ever had.”  
  
“And you’re doing alright?” she presses. I sigh.  
  
“I’m in chronic pain from my unremitant cancer, both of my kids have flown the coop, and I’ve had to completely rethink my sex life because I put on a few hundred pounds and got strong enough to lift cars,” I say, looking Jen dead in the eye. I manage to keep a straight face for all of thirty seconds, and then I burst out laughing.  
  
“Life has never been better,” I say.


End file.
